𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇

𝟎𝟏. 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬

𝐉𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝟏𝟐𝐭𝐡, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟖

Friendship bracelets were always harder to start than they were to finish.

You clamped your tongue between your teeth, focusing way too hard on the tricolored cord sitting tangled in your lap. The woods were suspiciously quiet for this time of day. Aside from the familiar scratching of your record player inside the cabin, the only sound that met your ears was the twittering of birds. You knew that the rickety shack you called home was usually reserved for Shadyside counselors, but they tossed you in there at the beginning of the summer all the same.

Go figure.

It was the furthest building from the outhouse and a good jog away from the heart of camp. The mess hall, the med-shed, and every other counselor cabin. You were isolated from practically everything at this godforsaken place. 

Every so often you would let Alice come smoke on your porch after curfew because no one was around to smell it. No one but you, but you didn't mind it much. At least that's what you told her.

Your only other frequent visitor besides Alice was Tommy Slater. He usually swung by around lights-out to make sure you were holding up okay after a shift with some especially rough campers. 

He also had some irrational fear that you would get mauled by a bear or one of the town psychos who managed to stumble too far into the dark forest. He even offered to switch bunk assignments with you several times, and you would have accepted if you weren't as stubborn as you were.

You knew that Tommy was waiting for you to invite him inside one of these nights, but you wanted to draw it out for as long as humanly possible.

"Shit," you hissed, failing to shake out a massive knot from your mess of a friendship bracelet. It looked more like a noose than anything. You picked up the string as a fun little break activity, but now you wanted to throw it into the bonfire and watch it burn. You should have asked Cindy Berman to start it for you. Or better yet Joan, who was the director of the crafts cabin this summer.

Your body tensed as a sound broke through the near-silence of the forest—the unmistakable crack of a twig underfoot.

The gathering of birds flew off, disappearing over the dense green treetops. You squinted in the direction of the noise, slowly lowering the string to your lap. No campers were allowed past the sports field. And besides, they were supposed to be doing archery with Gary on the other side of camp. 

"Hello?" You called skeptically, setting down your tangled mess of string to pick up your steel water bottle. Way to go, (Y/N). Great weapon of choice. "Is someone out there? Campers shouldn't be out this way!"

Images spilled into the front of your mind. Bears, Shadyside crackheads, wolves. Did Ohio even have wolves? You weren't very eager to find out.

Your shout startled a small figure huddled behind a wide tree trunk. You swore you saw a flash of blue darting off back toward the recreation center. Your first instinct was to follow it, or at least radio it to another counselor so they could keep an eye out for any little pervs that might've shown up late for an activity. But before you could reach for the clunky black walkie-talkie in your shorts pocket, a pair of familiar, angry footsteps thundered down the dirt path toward your cabin.

"(Y/N)!"

Spinning around, you sighed in relief. It was only Ziggy Berman, marching across the forest floor with fury blazing in her eyes. Her pale hands were balled into fists as she made a beeline for your sad little patio. Ziggy was your all-time favorite camper despite the fact that she was two strikes away from getting kicked out. "I'm about to commit a felony and I need an alibi!" She huffed.

She always sought you out whenever Camp Nightwing royalty pushed her buttons just a little too hard. There was bias at camp; upper-middle-class Sunnyvale snobs shoving the Shadyside kids into the dirt over and over again while the counselors turned a blind eye. You were just about the only one on staff who bothered to say anything about it. 

Ziggy trusted you and you trusted Ziggy. It was as simple as that.

"What happened this time?" You asked, shooting one last departing glance at the clump of trees where you knew for a fact that someone or something was just watching you from. As she advanced closer, you noticed that her nose had been bleeding. Fresh blood was smeared across the bottom half of her face. 

Like the responsibility switch had been flipped in your brain, your smile disappeared. "Zig, how did this happen?"

"Ask Sheila," she snapped, hopping onto the platform you were just sitting on. "She just tried to hang me by my fucking arms."

As she said this, she thrust out her wrists, both red and obviously in the early stages of bruising. There were so many things you wanted to say, but most of them weren't appropriate for camper ears. So you bit your tongue. "Sheila Martin did this?"

"And Catherine Greene, Sue Beagle, and Will Goode."

William Goode. Little creep. He was sweet, but in the same way that candy offered from a stranger was sweet. You couldn't help but wonder if there was a razor blade hidden under all that sugar. He was almost just as bad as his brother, but you won't get into that now. 

"Jesus," you mumbled, turning her hand over as gently as possible. There was a fresh blister blooming on the spot underneath her elbow. You've spent enough nights so far this summer huddled over Alice's lighter to recognize what it was. Someone had burned a hole right through her skin.

Apparently, you looked just as angry as you felt because Ziggy retracted her arm with the roll of her eyes. "(Y/N)-"

"Stay here. I need to have a talk with Kurt."

"What? No. Absolutely not," she backtracked, following you closely as you stormed into the cabin, letting the door slam in her wake. "He wants to kick me out anyway so there's literally not even a point."

"No point?" you asked, locating your backpack on your bed and swinging it over one shoulder. It had everything inside that you were expected to carry with you around camp. First aid kit, extra water bottles, the works. "The point is that a camper just assaulted you with fire. This isn't just bullying anymore. This is grounds for a lawsuit."

Only a handful of people at Nightwing have ever seen you truly and completely angry and Ziggy was one of them. She knew that if she didn't back down and stay inside your cabin like you asked her to, she'd only get bulldozed on your way to confront Mr. Sunnyvale himself; Kurt Abrey.

"You can play with my records," you bargained. "Just don't move until I come back."

Adjusting your backpack over your shoulder, you stormed off into the trees where you could already hear the roar of campers returning from their afternoon hike and the pulse of music thumping through the walls of the arts and crafts shed.

(A/N: So I don't know why but I definitely headcanon y/n's cabin being built over the spot where Solomon rescued her on the night of the bonfire. This literally has nothing to do with the story, but it's a detail I wanted to share. Let me know if you spot any mistakes! Very excited to publish this).