Final Room

09 | gale weathers

          I can't think about the future when the past is the only thing I can focus on. I relive that night, over and over, and the little space I can find in my brain to dedicate to the future is exclusively about the consequences of every little decision I make, even those that seem unremarkable.

          In my head, there's always someone plotting to hurt me, plotting to kill me, and I've told Doctor Albott I know I sound paranoid and self-absorbed, but I don't know how to stop. Dread follows me around everywhere I go, slowly creeping up my spine, and I'm overcome with a desire to stay busy all the time to keep my head busy, but nothing works. I've tried cooking, knitting, learning a foreign language, but there's always something that brings me back to hiding in a storage closet, being dragged by the hair, having my head slammed against a door in an attempt to knock me unconscious.

          The memories are bad. The feelings are the worst part—when it's not terror or guilt, the ugly, overwhelming guilt, there's nothing. I sit there, numb to everything that's going on, completely disconnected from my body and reality. For a moment, the emptiness, the quiet are peaceful. Then, the emptiness is all there is, and it takes me almost an eternity to bring myself back.

          My alarm rings. Sidney's ears twitch, but she doesn't lift her head on her own, only doing it when I gently move her away.

          She whines quietly, thinking I'm rejecting her, but she won't be alone all day, thanks to a quick Google search that informed me I'm allowed to bring her along. Betty doesn't mind, but I'm more concerned about Odette's reaction to Sid's presence. She's only had to share the room with her for a few hours at a time, not for most of the day, but I'm not leaving Sidney behind. I don't think I'll be able to get through a full day of college without her around, so I even dedicate a few moments of my morning routine to practicing a speech to tell Odette Sidney and I are a package deal, like she and Betty are—supposedly—and her presence isn't negotiable.

          "We're getting through today, you and I," I tell Sidney, as I search through my closet in search of something to wear, something that doesn't immediately scream I don't belong here. Just because I feel that way, it doesn't mean everyone has to know. "It's you and me, girl. Even if there's no one else, it's going to be you and me."

          She opens her mouth, tongue hanging off the side, and rolls around on the bed to lie stomach up, tail wagging violently against my pillows. With a small chuckle, I bend down to cup her head between my hands and press a quick kiss to the tip of her wet nose.

          "You're my favorite Final Girl," I add. "Just so you know. Don't mess with the original, right?"

          She licks my nose. I take that as confirmation that she understands my stupid horror movie references.

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         The real world isn't filled with Ghostfaces, Michael Myers, or Freddy Kruegers. The real world is filled with real people who are capable of committing heinous acts, people who stare at you on campus, people who whisper about you like you're a minor celebrity.

          The real world sucks. In fiction, at least you get to identify tropes and figure out what awaits you, but here you're a slave to uncertainty and the unpredictability of human beings. Somehow, you can always tell who's going to make a snide comment about you bringing a dog to college, or who is going to bump against your shoulder like you're not even there.

          In the real world, it's hard to figure out which of those scenarios is worse—the mortifying tragedy of being seen and perceived, or the loneliness of being invisible to your peers.