Leaking Infinity

TOO MUCH AND NOT ENOUGH

Wake up, huh?

I'd like that.

"I should sleep," I say, though it's only 9.

"Okay." He blinks, then lets go of my arm. His hand lingers in the air before he tugs it to his side. "Goodnight, Cammy."

I don't return the sentiment. If it bothers him, he doesn't show it.

I'd like to wake up, and stop astral-projecting. A good night's sleep will help me do that. When I wake up, I'm going to be fine.

(I have to be.)

.

I'm awake, and nothing's fine.

I stare at the ceiling like it holds the secret to why I'm the way I am.

The door knocks, then opens.

"Heya, Cammy," says Robert. "They're sort of waiting for you downstairs."

Did he sleep here, in my house?

"Okay," I say, and my voice doesn't belong to me.

"Cool." With that, he leaves.

I stare up at the ceiling again. It's the least interesting thing to stare at, but I can't look away.

Six days left. Or is it seven? When does the countdown start?

I'm going to play it safe, so, six days.

I have six days.

That's too much and not enough time.

(I never go downstairs. That would mean looking at Dad in the eye, and I don't want to do that.)

.

I'm in Mom and Dad's room. Dad's left for work. Robert's left to go to his own home. Mom won't let me leave until I have an adequate haircut. The way to get that is to let her trim my hair.

"It's not that I don't approve," she says, giving me a forced smile that shows what a liar she is. "It's that, well..." She gives a half-hearted excuse which I don't bother to listen to.

Everything in this room has hints of him, of Dad. The books, the paintings hung up, the modern yet classic style of the room. It's like his eyes are everywhere, scanning me, judging me, waiting for me to let my guard down so he can strike.

Dad won't do anything to me. I know that.

Still, though.

With the way he looked at me last night, my shoulders stay rigid, my spine stays straight, and my muscles stay clenched.

Mom doesn't talk about last night, as she turns her room into a private barbershop, with me sitting in her vanity mirror. Even this has hints of Dad; his deodorant, his watch, his comb, and his everything else.

I can't escape him.

(How can you? He's your dad.)

Once Mom's done, she sings a happy "tadaaa!", putting both hands on both of my shoulders.

I don't look up. I'm afraid of looking up.

"Mom?"

"Yeah?"

"Why'd you do it?"

The grip on my shoulders loosen.

"Because you're our daughter. You don't belong there."

I look up.

I've never looked as similar to Mom as I do now.

Is this me waking up?

"Mom."

"Yeah?"

"Is Dad mad at me?"

I hate myself for asking that.

Mom's look of confusion is genuine. "Why would he be mad at you?"

Oh. So, she doesn't know.

That's good. I don't think I can handle both of them hating me.

I thought a good night's sleep would put me back to my body, keep me from astral-projecting, but my sleep was not good, and I am uncertain as to what my name is, who I am, and whether the life I'm living is mine.

I need to get help.

One person comes to mind.

.

I'm knocking at the door. As it opens, I say, "Your sister is mad at me."

Tim reveals himself, his cheeks puffed up like a chipmunk because he's chewing on cheetos. "Huh," he says before swallowing.

"I think."

"What do you mean 'you think'?" he asks, frowning.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other, rubbing my hands. "I don't know, exactly, if she's mad or..." Devastated. Forlorn. Exhausted of me. "But I think she is. Mad, I mean. I haven't seen her."

His frown deepens. "When did you see her last?"

I swallow, watching him shove a handful of cheetos into his mouth. "Last night." The McKenzie triplets individually texted me, asking me what's wrong with Rachel, and what happened last night, and if I'm okay.

My only reply is that I'm okay, and there's no need to worry, which is a lie.

He gives me his index finger—a sign that tells me to wait—as he chews. Once the cheetos are travelling into his throat, he asks, "Did she look mad?"

Oh, how to answer that. I remember the shimmer in her eyes, the way her face hardened, how much of a contrast she was to herself; weak yet strong, sad yet not, tired yet full of anger. She was a mess. We both were.

I'm still a mess.

"Cam?"

I blink. I realise I've spaced out, and Tim has finished eating his cheetos, licking away the yummy flavor from his fingers.

"Yes, Tim?"

His finger free from traces of cheetos, he says, "Let's go to the living room."

.

I come to the living room and find someone I didn't expect there.

"Uncle Mike?!"

"Cam?!" He stands up from the sofa, putting his cup of—what I assume based on the smell is—Redbull. "What are you doing in my students' house?"

"Student?" I ask, turning to Tim. "You're his student?"

"You're related to him?" he asks me back.

"Yeah, duh, he's my uncle."

"Why do you say 'duh' like it's obvious?"

"Kids, kids," Uncle Mike says, and we both turn to him, "stop."

The cogs in my brain are moving at super-speed. Timmy. Tim. T.

"Wait." I snap my head to him. "You're Tyrannical T?!"

...

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Plot twist. You didn't see that one coming, did you?

So. Rachel and Cam's relationship is now strained, at best. What will Cam do to save it?