FALL INTO FOREVER - Chapter 1, Scene 1

Ivy

I’m standing in the bathroom of the biggest party off campus, but I don’t have to pee. I grip the edge of the counter and try not to hyperventilate. I gasp for air, but all I can manage are a few shallow breaths. It’s like my brain knows I want to scream, but it won’t let me take a deep enough breath to make a fool of myself.

Don’t cry. Don’t freak out. It’ll only make things worse.

I can vaguely hear my old therapist admonishing me to change my affirmations from negative to positive, but right now, under these circumstances, that’s totally impossible.

Pinching my eyes shut, I drop down in front of the sink cabinet and tap my head against the wood. Not hard, but hard enough. I’m hoping it’ll help me think of what to do.

One. Two. Three.

The wimpy part of my personality wants me to climb inside the tiny space under the sink, fold my head to my knees, and wrap my arms around my shins.

I want to hide. Disappear.

The new me, the person I’ve sewn together with the parts I want to be, is unraveling at the seams, the threads joining them suddenly weak and brittle. I read this dystopian book once where people were actually constructed from parts of others who were unwound. That’s me right now. A disjointed, incomplete person. Take a piece away—I won’t notice. Take two. It doesn’t matter.

Classic heavy metal blares from downstairs and rattles the floor beneath me. The front door slams over and over as more students come and go. There’s talking, lots of laughing.

They’re the kind of people who don’t have a bunch of shadows hiding inside them. People who can have fun. People whose only challenge on a Friday night is what to wear to an eighties theme party.

If only that were me.

I may look like I belong with them, but deep down inside, I don’t. They don’t live with secrets and forgotten memories like I do.

My shoulders feel heavier than they did before. I tighten my hold on the countertop to keep from falling backward on my butt.

Come on, Ivy. Get a grip. You can’t stay here all night.

For the first time since coming into the bathroom, I notice that the toilet seat and lid are up. I’ve always had this irrational fear that I, my cell phone, or my keys will somehow fall into a toilet bowl if it’s open. I force myself to stand, reach over with my foot, and kick it down.

The noise jolts me, and I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

My reddish-brown hair hangs in limp waves past my shoulders, the corkscrew curls all but gone now. Twin tracks of mascara are running down my cheeks. I don’t recall actually crying, but it’s obvious I have been. How long have I been in here, anyway?

I turn on the faucet to wash my hands and splash my face with water. Maybe that will help.

My stomach clenches with revulsion when I see the only towel in the room. It’s dirty and hangs crookedly on the rack over the toilet, limp and damp from use. Soap scum coats the sink and drain, even though you can tell someone tried to wipe it off with something. Probably that towel. A bar of Irish Spring sits in a waterlogged soap dish with—um, sick—a curly black pube clinging to the top.

No splashing my face with water. I turn off the faucet.

Someone pounds on the door and I jump. My gaze darts to the latch below the knob. Should it be turned to the left or the right? I did lock it, didn’t I? The crystal knob rattles, but the door doesn’t open. It’s still locked.