Page 60 of Endless Anger
The first thing I look for is the Vyvanse; I’m shit at remembering to take it, but I know some students around here would steal it if they knew I had it, and admitting to my parents that I don’t regularly keep it on me isn’t something I want to do.
Truly, the medicine is great when I think about it and a low enough dose that my irregular ingestion only really seems to affect my sleep schedule, which is awful anyway. But Mom would be on my ass if she knew.
I’m not abusing the stuff, but I suppose I’m not correctly using it either.
I just fucking wish I didn’t need it at all. Wish my brain could regulate on its own and my body didn’t feel like it needs to be in constant motion, or else.
Or else what, I don’t know. Nobody does. Death, it sometimes feels like. Spontaneous combustion, maybe.
Anger. Lots of anger. Racing jumbled thoughts turn to overstimulation and then systemic shutdowns.
When I was little, I had no idea why I felt so isolated and disconnected. I had energy and tried to be friendly, but there were needs I was pushing down to try and fit in that kept me from the others.
My interests came at higher, more concentrated speeds. What didn’t interest me made me uneasy.
I trieddesperatelyto blend in with my peers, and when I realized I couldn’t, I left. Thought a change of scenery would alleviate the hyperactivity and attention deficit.
A lot of fucking good that did me.
At some point, a loud knock raps on my door, and I press myself as close to the corner of my bed as possible, huddled beneath my blankets and wishing I could disappear into the wall. Fear paralyzes me, keeping me in place as I replay the scene from the quarry over and over on a loop.
Celeste’s muffled noises—first pleasure and then pain.
Terror.
Pure and unfiltered.
The knife as it slicked right through her throat.
And I just sat there, watching, listening, witnessing the darkest and final moments of her life.
A metal trash can next to my bed becomes a vomit bucket. I empty acidic fluid into it until my skin is clammy and my hair sticks to my forehead. My throat burns with the effort.
The knocking ceases eventually, but the images don’t stop. Dark crimson stains my vision, blurring everything in sight. I try to read, attempting to catch up on Archaeological Theories and Methods coursework, but my focus is completely shot.
My attention span on a normal day is part of the real reason Dean Bauer called me to his office; it’s unprecedented for an Avernia student to be doing as badly as me so early in the semester, but here I am. Breaking records.
I doubt these are ones my parents would be proud to display on the fridge though. Lachlan and Logan likely have much loftier achievements.
The sun comes up at some point, spilling in through the sheer curtains bracketing the sole window in the room. Celeste’s side is completely intact from when she was here last, her gold satin sheets made up, waiting for her return. A bag of makeup sits on her desk next to her open laptop, and when I wake the screen, it still displays a research paper she’d been working on.
One of the outfits she’d been debating on wearing to the party hangs up on her closed wardrobe, abandoned as she ran out of time before a seminar.
My hands tremble the longer I stare at her half, nausea churning in my gut.
I stuff my feet into a pair of sneakers and sprint to the door. Panic swells in my chest like wind catching in a sail, and I scramble to unlock the knob, breathing erratically when I throw the damn thing open.
Aurora’s on the other side, her fist raised as if poised to knock. Her blond hair is a tangled mess, her blue eyes smudged with last night’s makeup, and she’s holding two to-go cups from Gaea Beans, the only vegan coffee shop in Fury Hill.
“Dude, what thehellhappened to you? I watch you walk off to find something to drink, and the next thing I know, you’ve completely disappeared.” She pushes into the room, irritation rolling off her in waves. “Do you know how worried I was? I couldn’t even get into Erebus to find you, and then you weren’t answering your phone?—”
“I’m fine,” I cut in, swallowing thickly. “Clearly.”
“Fine?”
She sets the cups down, hauling me by my bicep, and stops in front of Celeste’s wall mirror. I bite the inside of my cheek as my palms grow sweaty, trying to convince myself it’s just the heat from the coffee.
I wait for her to mention the mess and disorganization on my side, but she doesn’t even seem to notice.
