Page 18 of Severance

After finishing up the dining room floor and stocking the front for tomorrow morning, I finally summon enough courage to talk to Mrs. Kaminski. It’s the end of the day and she’s sitting in her tiny office, staring at the screen of the old computer that looks like it belongs in a nineties movie and has probably been here ever since the bakery opened.

“Mrs. Kaminski.” I stop in the doorway and clear my throat. “Do you have a minute?”

She tears her gaze away from the spreadsheet and looks at me with her tired eyes. “Sure.”

“I know this probably isn’t a good time, but I believe I might be leaving in a few weeks.”

She clutches her hands together and makes a sound that’s a mixture of a sigh and a gasp.

“I can still work until after Christmas,” I add, feeling like a total traitor and wanting to take everything back.

Mrs. Kaminski gives me a small smile, and the web of wrinkles around her eyes deepens. “I can’t keep you here forever, dear. I wish I could, though.” A quiet laugh escapes her throat. “You are a good girl and a great help. Whatever you decide to do next, I hope it works out for you.”

Her words clatter around in my head like pieces of broken glass, cutting and stabbing.

“Thank you,” I say, my hand reaching for my phone that’s buzzing inside my pocket. “I’ll see you tomorrow at two.”

“Have a good night, Alana.” She returns to her dinosaur of a computer.

I pull off my visor and rush outside, the back door slamming shut behind me as the soft beep of the alarm follows me to my car.

My phone feels hot and heavy in my palm and I take a moment to catch my breath before looking at all the unread texts from Dakota.

6. After

I sit inside my car in the parking lot for what seems like an eternity, paralyzed with fear, studying the printout of the campus evacuation map and staring at the scars on my palms. The pain is now gone, and what’s left is a strange pulling sensation. My coffee is lukewarm and tastes like expired milk with a shot of acid. I’m trying to remember whether I took my anti-anxiety medication this morning, because ever since I left my house, my breathing has been out of control, shallow and fast one second and loud and slow the next. I’m not entirely sure how I didn’t get into an accident on the way here.

Jess and I never met up last weekend. It was partially my fault because I ignored her texts. On Wednesday, when I finally summoned enough courage to check my social media for the first time since the attack, I spent a good hour staring at the photo of Luke she posted on her Instagram from the hospital where he’d gone in for his second surgery.

There’s a small fraction of me that’s jealous of them, and I wonder if it’s because I was always a bad person or because I’ve become one. Everything around me has changed. The attack divided my life into the light before and the dark after. There’s nothing left in between. No grays or any other colors.

Maybe my mother’s right about me needing more time off, or maybe her constant nagging has convinced me. My father even brought up an indefinite break over the weekend, which didn’t sound like him at all. All my life, he’s been hell-bent on making sure I have a college education. Why is he now against me going back to school?

After checking the evac map one last time and skimming through the long string of unread text messages on my phone, only to ignore every single one of them, I grab my backpack and get out of the car. My knees feel weak and my feet begin to quake.

You can do it, Alana. It’s just a college campus.

I slam the door of my Prius shut, slide the keys into the side pocket of my backpack, and start walking. My heartbeat picks up and my stomach churns. There’s bile coming up my throat. The fact that I’m about to enter a building with several thousand people inside and very few exits rattles me. The t-shirt underneath my jacket is damp from my sweat and the backpack feels like it’s stuffed with bricks.

I haven’t been anywhere since the night of the shooting except for the hospital and Dakota’s funeral. My mother’s been insisting that I see a grief counselor, but there were no appointments available last week, so she made one for me for tomorrow. She also won’t stop talking about some local support group she’s found online.

Coming to a complete stop in front of the main entrance of the building where my class is located, I evaluate the massive concrete steps. The heavy wooden doors swinging open and closed non-stop look morbid and menacing.

I stand like this, with my hands clutched around the straps of my backpack and my chest heaving, for a good minute, wondering if I should go home.

“Alana?” Someone taps my shoulder, yanking me back to the real world.

I jerk away and swivel toward the sound.

The person across from me is Mallory. If my memory serves me right, we have English and a couple of other classes together and she borrowed my notes once. Her eyes are wide with shock and she’s looking at me as if the hole in my chest is visible.

“Hey,” I mumble under my breath, my hand reaching out for my injured cheek.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” She gives me a sympathetic smile.

“You didn’t.” I shake my head.

“How are you?”

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