(hihi thanks for readin. tap the star above pls and thank you. ilysm)
[A BRIEF DISCLAIMER]
[This chapter contains elements of suicide attempt, overdose, and medical drug abuse. If any of these topics trigger, please refrain from reading further. Thank you.]
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thanatophobia (n.)
than·a·to·pho·bia
An intense fear of death or dying.
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I joined Camp Cowbell as a counselor out of the money, to be frank.
I had no joy of working with kids, half due to my lack of experience and half due to the fact anything alive and under my responsibility scared the living daylights out of me. But in some attempt to get some quick cash, I signed my name and turned in a shitty resume and got the job.
Camp Cowbell was farther inland of California, where all the strange people went to collect rocks or talk about communism over turkey sandwiches. It was somewhere in a flat forest where the trees couldn't ever decide what exact height they were and the leaves couldn't decide what exact season they were. The weather was humid as the tropics and soaked with unbearable heat.
It was an all-boys camp, because some people didn't mind cruel institutions as long as they were willingly attended to. 'All boys' was just another name for 'good luck surviving'. There was a reason the slogan was MOO OR BE MOOED, after all.
I occupied Cabin 32, with seven kids, and as horrific as the entire counselor experience was, some good shone through every now and then.
Like in the deeper nights, when they as rational middle schoolers thought themselves invincible to the strength of circadian rhythms and stayed up far past curfew. And I, being a good counselor and a class A insomniac, snuck in snacks to stay up with them, too.
As much as I often disregarded my kids and found myself repeatedly disappointed with the upcoming generations, they were still my cabin kids. It was like defending your hairless Chihuahua who kept bumping into poles when you walked it every five feet. Objectively, the thing was dumb as a rock, but it was still your dumb rock.
Lucky for those kids, because I was a dumb rock, too.
"Hey, Angel," Levi said. Irish kid, short height, bad haircut, and so many freckles you'd think he'd had paint splattered on him. "I got a question."
I popped a chip into my mouth. For animal control reasons, snacks were never allowed in the cabins. Which was why I snuck whatever they wanted in all the time. Because fuck the government.
Kidding. We just got hungry easily.
"Shoot," I said.
"You're old, right?"
"Damn, Levi," Jamal said from his bunk above. Nice kid, good hair, glasses thicker than bulletproof glass, and curly hair that listened to no product or hand. "You can't just say someone's old."
YOU ARE READING
Suicide Buddies
Teen Fiction"My mother once told me there are three, and only three, truly defining moments in your life. One: When you don't know. Two: When you realize you don't know. Three: When you know. This is about the third one." --- Angel Young is going to die. Or at...
